


fingers walk your thigh (breathe my love)

by knoxoursavior



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU
Genre: Lingerie, M/M, Rimming, bottom!Clark, really just BVS because Clark and Lois are roommates, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 23:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7243129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh! I forgot about those,” Lois says, reaching out a hand so Clark can give them to her. She runs her fingers through the material, purses her lips, and somewhat wistfully, adds, “I really wanted to see this on you.”</p>
<p>Clark starts, his cheeks warming. “On me?”</p>
<p>(based on <a href="https://twitter.com/halcyon1796/status/738487260568379392">this fanart</a> by halcyon1796)</p>
            </blockquote>





	fingers walk your thigh (breathe my love)

**Author's Note:**

> commission for [albi](http://p0werbottomsuperman.tumblr.com)!!! and like i said in the summary, this is based on [this fanart](https://twitter.com/halcyon1796/status/738487260568379392) by halcyon1796, which is just really great aah
> 
> also thank you to [selofain](http://selofain.tumblr.com/) for being such a great and lovely beta!!!

Clark finds it in his drawer one day, buried under his socks and his scarves.

“Lois?” he calls out, padding towards the kitchen where Lois is sitting on the kitchen table, pictures and documents related to her latest story scattered in front of her. There’s probably some sort of order to it, but Clark wouldn’t know. No one else in the Planet can really follow Lois Lane’s thought process as quickly as Lois herself.

Lois hums in response, not even looking up at him. Clark takes no offense, knows she’s on the verge of a breakthrough. He wonders if he should come back later, maybe when Lois’ stomach has growled at her long enough for her to take a break.

But she makes his decision for him, asks, “Clark? What is it?”

“Hey, I think you left this in my room,” Clark says, shooting her a small smile as he holds up the black nylon stockings in one hand and the lac panties and suspenders in the other.

“Oh! I forgot about those,” Lois says, reaching out a hand so Clark can give them to her. She runs her fingers through the material, purses her lips, and somewhat wistfully, adds, “I really wanted to see this on you.”

Clark starts, his cheeks warming. “On _me_?”

Lois raises an eyebrow. “Yes, Clark, on you.”

“I thought this was yours,” Clark says, and okay, maybe his voice is a little bit higher than usual, but he thinks he has more than enough reason to be flustered.

“Clark, you sweet Southern boy.” Lois laughs, tugs Clark closer and dumps the lingerie back in his hands. “Keep them. Maybe Bruce will appreciate them.”

“Lois!” Clark whines, because honestly, he’s already embarrassed enough.

Lois rolls her eyes but she pats Clark’s cheek fondly nonetheless. “Keep them, Smallville. Now get out of here and let me work.”

Clark sighs.

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

 

The stockings go back inside Clark’s drawer. He’d like to say that they’re staying there for good, but sometimes, as he rummages his closet for his rumpled outfit of the day, he catches himself thinking about them, hesitating before he puts on his slacks.

He lasts almost a week before he’s standing in front of the open drawer, staring at the stockings, wondering if he should put them on for date night.

He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t.

Except there’s voice is in the back of his head, telling him that there’s no harm in wearing them, that Bruce is probably going to like the feeling of Clark’s stockings-clad legs wrapped around his hips.

Clark finds it a little bit harder to breathe, a little bit harder to convince himself to play it safe and show up in his trusted cotton briefs.

Clark sighs as he finally grabs the stockings from the drawer. He really hopes this is worth it.

 

 

“I’m sorry about the reporters.”

Clark laughs, almost losing his balance as he takes his shoes off and leaves them at the foot of the bed. “Vultures, the lot of them.”

“Especially the ones at the Daily Planet,” Bruce agrees, and he’s already dressed down to his boxers, already pulling Clark to bed with him. They lay down on their sides, facing each other, fingers intertwined between them.

“Who’s the worst one of them, Bruce?” Clark asks, stifling a laugh.

“Well, there’s this one guy called Kent…” Bruce starts, except he’s inching closer to Clark and the rest of the sentence is muffled by Clark’s lips pressing against his, Clark’s tongue sliding into his mouth.

Bruce’s hand is on Clark’s cheek, holding him in place. The other is underneath his shirt, pinching his nipples, traversing his torso, dragging nails against his skin.

Clark shifts his leg, settles it between Bruce’s, except he hears the slide of nylon against wool, and he remembers that he’s about to give Bruce a surprise. It’s almost riveting, the thought of Bruce’s nails scraping against the material, or of Clark’s knees on Bruce’s shoulders, his pale white scars even more obvious next to black nylon.

It shouldn’t send a shiver up his spine, shouldn’t force a moan from his lips, but it does.

Even so, with his heart beating loudly in his ears and his breaths just a little bit heavier than before, Clark doesn’t say anything, lets Bruce find out for himself.

And when it happens, Bruce is dipping his fingers under the band of Clark’s slacks, brushing against the lace panties, and he pauses, pulls away just enough for him to look Clark in the eye.

“Lingerie, Clark?” he murmurs, and his eyes are dark, his tongue darting between his lips. “You’ve been wearing this the whole night?”

“It’s not the only thing,” Clark says, and then he’s leaning in, taking Bruce’s lower lip between his teeth, pulling at it playfully before he reaches down and unzips his slacks for Bruce. He makes quick work of them, and in no time, he’s on display, with black stockings going up to the middle of his thighs, lace underwear half-covered by his silk dress shirt.

For a long moment, Bruce is frozen, staring, his chest heaving noticeably as he breathes and his cheeks getting redder by the second. And it makes Clark _hard_ , the attention. It makes him arch his back, close his eyes, and sigh as he gives in and palms himself through his underwear.

“Clark,” Bruce says, and he sounds so broken, like Clark’s broken him, and isn’t that such a nice thought to have while he’s tracing the line of his cock, squeezing at the area where pre-come has seeped through the cloth.

Clark should be asking if Bruce wants this, wants to see him like this, but he finds himself unable to, even as Bruce reaches out and skims Clark’s clothed thigh with his fingertips, touch light enough that it’s almost ticklish.

“Bruce?” Clark manages, but his voice is tinged with helplessness, with a little bit of the desperation that he’s feeling as he barely stops himself from taking Bruce’s hand and pressing it to his skin, or latching onto Bruce himself and taking both of their cocks in his hand, all the while with a leg hooked around Bruce’s knee.

“You look beautiful, Clark,” Bruce says finally, and then he’s pushing Clark to lay down, back flat on the bed, and he’s spreading Clarks legs so he can settle between them, hands lingering on Clark’s knees before Bruce leans down to mouth at Clark’s cock through his lace panties.

Clark weaves his fingers into Bruce’s hair, tugs just the way Bruce likes it, the way that makes Bruce moan and work harder.

Bruce does, and he sucks particularly hard at the wet spot before he unclips the suspenders and hooks his fingers under the band of Clark’s underwear to tug them down. Clark lifts his hips to help, and soon enough, his cock is out, smearing pre-come against his stomach.

But instead of having Bruce wrap his mouth around the head of Clark’s cock, or having Bruce’s hand tight around the base, his thumb tracing the vein on the underside of his cock, Bruce puts the suspenders back on, pats Clark’s knee, says, “Turn around.”

Clark bites his lip, wonders what’s coming, but Bruce is rubbing circles on his calf and Clark wants nothing more than to do as Bruce says, let Bruce do whatever he wants. And so Clark turns around, waits, listens. Every breath Bruce takes is loud in his ears, every brush of Bruce’s fingertips against his skin sending a shudder through his body.

Bruce takes Clark by his legs, pulls him a closer to the edge of the bed. The movement drags his cock against the bedsheets, friction tempered by his dress shirt enough that Clark manages to stifle a moan.

But then Bruce spreads his cheeks, licks a stripe along the cleft of his ass, and Clark moans, the sound muffled by the way his face is pressing into the sheets.

“Did you wear this the whole night, Clark?” Bruce asks, and Clark can feel his breath, can feel it when Bruce gives him another lick, teasing.

“Yes,” Clark says, but he breaks into another moan at the last minute because of Bruce’s tongue slipping inside him, twisting in a way that makes Clark buck his hips, but it only lasts a moment, and then Clark finds himself panting, wanting more.

“When did you get this, Clark?” Bruce asks, and his tone is so calm, so even, like his tongue wasn’t in Clark just moments ago. Like he didn’t have Clark at his mercy.

Clark grips his cock through his shirt, rubs at the head as he grinds his hip into the mattress. It’s just enough to keep him on edge, but not to make him come. Nothing is usually ever enough unless Bruce is with him, touching him, asking him to.

 “Lois,” Clark says. “Lois bought it for me.”

Bruce hums, says, “I suppose I’ll have to send her some flowers to thank her,” and then his tongue is in Clark again, curling and swirling and fucking into him, and Clark can’t help but grip at the sheets and cry out.

He tugs at his cock, follows the pace Bruce has set, careful not to buck his hips too much.

Bruce’s hand is on his thigh, tracing a line along his suspenders up to his hips where Bruce holds him steady as he slips his tongue out of Clark for a moment so he can bite into Clark’s ass, murmuring, “You’re gorgeous, Clark,” quietly against Clark’s skin like he always does, as if he’s saying it to himself, convincing himself that he’s here with Clark and he’s the one who makes Clark feel like he has nothing to worry about, nothing to focus on except what’s going on in this room right now, on his own pleasure.

It always makes Clark feel like he wants to give everything he has to Bruce, everything he hasn’t already given to this world—the little part of himself that he hides away from Superman or Clark Kent and leaves for the little moments when he’s with Ma or with Kara or with Bruce, and he’s just _himself._

Even before Bruce’s tongue can slide back inside him, Clark comes, and he’s sure he cries out Bruce’s name even though the sound of it is drowned out by Bruce’s murmurs ghosting over his skin, about how Clark is always so good, always so beautiful and perfect, about how Bruce _loves him_.

“Fuck me,” Clark breathes.

“Can you get up on your knees for me?” Bruce asks, and of course Clark can, even when he feels like he’s helpless, boneless, he can if it’s for Bruce.

“Good, Clark. You’re so good,” Bruce says once Clark manages to get himself on his hands and knees. Bruce has to put an arm around his waist to support him, but Clark manages it.

“Fuck me,” Clark repeats, and then Bruce is slipping a hand between his thighs, covering the skin above his stockings with lube, and Clark thinks, _oh_ , they’ve never done this before.

“You’ve been so good tonight, Clark,” Bruce says as his cock slides between Clark’s thighs, and Clark can tell by the roughness of his voice that he isn’t going to last, that he’s already teetering on the edge just from seeing Clark like this, from making Clark come.

Clark thinks it’s only fair that he makes it as good for Bruce as he can, and so he keeps his thighs closed as tight as he can, settles a hand over the one gripping his waist, arches his back so Bruce can press a kiss to his neck.

“I love you,” Clark whispers, because he doesn’t think he’s said it yet tonight, and he always makes a point to.

He hears Bruce’s breath catch, feels Bruce pulling him closer, and he knows Bruce is coming.

“We’ll clean up later,” Bruce says when he’s done and he’s pulled Clark to lay down on the bed with him. They’re facing each other, arms around each other, legs tangled under the blanket Bruce has placed over them.

Clark only hums in response, already having given in to how sleepy he is. He isn’t like Bruce. He doesn’t drink innumerable cups of coffee a day because he doesn’t have a reputation of being nocturnal to hold up. Unless he has a story he’s working on, of course, but even then, he makes sure to sleep at least two hours or else he’s going to get himself gutted in the bullpen.

Before he falls asleep, he feels Bruce press a kiss to his temple, hears Bruce whisper another _I love you_ into his hair, and he knows that tonight was worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on [tumblr](http://connerkent.tk/)!!


End file.
